


the first twelve hundred words

by softsocky



Series: monsoon [2]
Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Childhood Friends, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 10:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13339419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/softsocky
Summary: "I love you."He smiled. "You better."





	the first twelve hundred words

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to [vonseal](https://vonseal.tumblr.com/) for being a guiding light during this.  
> P.S I wrote this intending to put it all in order, but then I thought I'd confuse you and put it all in a funny order. I hope you enjoy!

 

Their first kiss tastes like butter-menthol.

It was the end of February, and the warm tongue of Spring was licking at the tresses of the library walls. It was _right there,_ looming around the corner, and the aftermath of a brutal winter chill had left Jinny’s throat coarse, had replaced his nose with sandpaper. The air conditioning had yet to be turned on, the hum from overhead reminding MJ of how overheated he felt in the heating, and he struggled with this blazer. Jinny, stretched across him on the lounge, had his head nestled deep into his lap, one hand wrapped underneath his thigh, the other sprawled somewhere underneath his own body.

MJ would normally go ahead and tease him, scratch along the side of his torso, the back of his neck, and laugh at the sequel he’d elicit from the sleeping boy. The day he learnt the slightly elder boy was ticklish was a day that he decided he’d never let it go, would run his fingers along his body with a feather-light touch as often as he could. The jumpy yelp that would always come out of him was enough to send MJ into some kind of fondness-induced subspace, where he couldn’t concentrate all that well and found it his personal mission to always hear the elders laugh. It was a drug, of sorts, and MJ was an addict.

Not now, though. Right _now_ , he was reformed, because he knew very well that the boy in his lap hadn’t been sleeping. Jinny never slept well when he was sick, whether it be a headache or a stomach bug or a flu. He had the worst immune system, and over the years of knowing him, of being his best friend, MJ had only seen it go from bad to worse. He took vitamins, vitamin c and horseradish and even forced a few mouthfuls of garlic down his throat, to attempt and avoid the flu he’d get every single winter – but to no avail. December would bring freezing chills and Christmas and a flu to Jinny’s ever-growing tally. Because of the way the bags under his eyes were blackening more and more each day, MJ felt safe to assume the boy wasn’t getting all that better. The sleep obviously hadn’t returned yet, probably wouldn’t for a few more days, so seeing the way the boy had curled up – unconscious – on his lap now, MJ knew better than to jostle him awake.

Instead of dragging his fingers up his side, as to tickle him, MJ ran them through Jinny’s knotted hair. The boy hadn’t cared much for his appearance, barely washed his hair, let alone _brush_ it. But they were second-years in high school, and the excitement had well and truly worn off. Last year, when they were new and bright and had finally started high school, like big kids, they made it their duty to look perfect every day – even if it meant having to wake up early. There wasn’t much to be done when a school uniform was in play, but MJ liked to pride himself on adding a little tinted moisturiser each morning to smooth all the redness out, liked to occasionally put a tiny dab of silver on his eyelids. The staff weren’t overtly fond of makeup, but with how subtle MJ liked to make his, there had never been any comments thrown his way. From students there had been, who were more trained in the ways of bypassing punishment for breaching school rules, though with Jinny at his side, with his _support_ , he’d never really thought much of it.

His fingers got tangled in a particularly tough knot now, and MJ delicately unthreaded it with his fingertips. He watched with uncensored fondness at the slight furrowing of Jinny’s brows, the way his lips puckered a little into a pout. He used the thumb of his spare hand to press against the wrinkles of his forehead, biting his lips around his smile as he watched them dissipate and smooth over into nothing but flawless skin. The boy hummed, and although MJ was unsure if he was still asleep or awake now, he cooed back, letting his hand settle on the crown of MJ’s head. There, nestled in the deep, dark brown locks, he let his fingertips tap along his scalp in the way he knew the elder liked. He said it reminded him of being at the hair dressers, when they’d wash your hair with gentle fingers, and would scratch along your scalp as they massaged product into you.

They sat like this for ten minutes longer, and watching the boy sleep in his lap was making MJ’s own eyes feel heavy. He contemplated setting an alarm for the end of lunch, and curling down along the couch beside his best friend and napping along with him. Before he could do so, the boy stirred in his lap, replaced his silence with a groan that sounded stuck in the back of his throat. He unfolded his arms and stretched them above his head, eyes squeezing tightly shut before fluttering open, looking weak and blurry.

He groaned again, running one hand down his face, as if to wake himself up a little more, clear the fog in his head and relinquish his grasp on reality. MJ didn’t notice the precise moment in Jinny’s eyes that he decided to do it. Wasn’t sure if Jinny had decided, or if he did. Didn’t know if that way that Jinny’s hands moved from beside his body, to MJ’s shoulders was intentional or a flu-ridden dream, didn’t know if he was breathing anymore.

Jinny’s grip on his shoulders wasn’t strong, not confining in any way, but it allowed the elder to yank himself upright into a sitting position. Their faces were so very close to each other’s now, that MJ could smell the butter menthol coming from Jinny’s mouth, where he had been sucking on them earlier that day. He could smell the sweetness and the indecisiveness and the smell of misery that accompanies illness and the smell of whatever the _hell_ this was, because this seriously wasn’t something MJ had prepared himself for today.

Whether it was him that moved first or Jinny didn’t really matter, because all that happened next was a press of two lips together, tasting distantly of the butter menthol he could smell earlier, like Irish Moss cough syrup, like something else that MJ couldn’t put a name too.

He hoped, though, that that mystery flavour wasn’t regret.

 

(It was).

 

 

MJ had fought this battle before, had somehow _won_ _it_ , but right now the weight in the room was heavier than he remembers it ever being. It _was_ heavier now, maybe. _Maybe_ that’s why he was struggling to breathe as he sinks down deeper in the bath, why the hot water didn’t seem to stop the jittering of his bones. He could feel his muscles clench and contract, jumping under his skin in a throbbing, sensitive mess, and his tendons felt overworked and abused. Beside the tub, on the floor, half spilled and damp, was the pill bottle of promethazine his doctor had prescribed him three months before.

At the time of the medication being given to him, his allergies were bad – the Phenergan acted as a relief, though it made his head foggy, made him drowsier than he thought it would, so he had stopped taken them and pushed on with the constant sneezing and flares of rashes on his skin. But now, sleepless after four nights, unsure of _why_ , MJ was half comatose in his bath tub late at night. Because MJ felt the itch underneath his skin that reminded him of his allergies, but it _wasn’t_. The itch was different, ran deeper, closer to his heart than the epidermis of his skin. _Deeper, deeper, deeper,_ deeper than the water he soaked in, deeper than anything else.

And he was continuously lying to himself by saying he didn’t care, because of course, he cared. The way the hot water cooled against his skin without him noticing was enough proof of that, as was the painfully dry sobs wrenching from his throat, which had, over the course of the evening, softened into a velvety smooth rush of anguish, where sounds were so tender against his throat, that he made no noise at all. His Mum had knocked on the door at some point, but he ushered her away. He felt dirty and messy and like there was something clinging to the outmost layer of his skin, and as though he’d left it there for far too long and it was now crawling its way deeper into his bloodstream. He scrubbed at his skin with the loofa and the coconut body wash, but all it did was turn his skin red, and nothing more.

He had fought this battle before, the one where his mind falls silent but his body cannot, and the swirly mess of disbelief and indecision and regret starts to get the better of him. He fought it once, the worst time, when he sat his parents down at the kitchen table with fumbling hands and an even more so fumbling voice, spat out across the table that he liked boys in the way he should have liked girls. Though that had barely been a battle at all once the words were out, because his Dad had cried tears from this side of happiness and pride, and his Mum had merely kissed his head over and over and said that he had never been expected to like girls, and that liking boys was fine, too.

So perhaps this _was_ the first he’d fought this battle before. This battle of mind and body and tongue, deciding which way to move, which way to run, which person to confide in when these problems have arisen because of the person you’d normally go too. Perhaps it’s the first battle because this is the first time MJ has truly let himself sink into the feeling of being in love with his best friend, with Jin Jin, _Jinny_ , the boy who owned much more than his heart.

But Jinny was a high schooler now. They both were, but Jinny seemed to fit that mould better. They were two months into their first year there together, and while MJ had gained little of anything, Jinny had gained himself a girlfriend. She had pretty, dark hair with small hands, and her nails were always painted a shiny shade of blue. MJ didn’t know how she got away with it, but then again, she got away with destroying his heart, so perhaps nothing was as it seemed.

He reached around the edge of the tub, snatched up two more of those nasty little pills, and swallowed them down dryly. This had been his sixth in the past hour, something well and truly beyond recommended by his doctors, but the way it made him feel dizzy and disoriented was distracting him from the fact that Jinny had cancelled plans with him tonight to spend it with his girlfriend Hana, that their weekly movie night tradition had now been broken, and that MJ wanted nothing more than to sleep. _Maybe_ , he thought, _this itch wasn’t the deepest._ His feelings for Jinny were, that much he could no longer deny.

He sunk lower into the water, until his back was flat against the base, and his head below the surface.

 

 

The library had become their haven. In the first week of their first year, neither boy had wanted to go into the lunch room. It was overflowing with people – and not just newbies like _them_ , but older students, too, ones who were relentless with their bullying and their teasing and would do just about anything to rise fear from first years. To avoid it, they took their lunches from home and wandered the hallways mindlessly, with no intention of going anywhere, or finding a place to call their own. Finding themselves in the library had been merely by mistake. They had rounded the wrong corner, took the wrong left turn, and found themselves out the front of the quiet space. They entered wordlessly, in agreement that maybe inside the silence was the best place to find peace, and the couch along the back wall – semi-hidden by the rows of books – was where they found themselves.

And for all the days that followed that, they spent their lunches there. MJ would slouch upright, sinking back into the cushions, whereas Jinny would always be sprawled haphazardly across the lounge. Some days kick his shoes off, and curl himself up into a tight, little ball down one end, whereas others, he’d stretch long and thing down the entire length of it, knees in MJ’s lap. They’d usually chat mindlessly, about nothing in particular, or sometimes they’d say nothing all. With the years they’d known each other, it made sense that sometimes they ran out of things to say, especially given that they knew everything about each other already. But these breaks of silence were never awkward or tense or unpleasant, because the silence was a remedy to the stress of high school. Sometimes, they’d work on their homework, too, so that the entire afternoon and evenings weren’t spent slumped over desks at home trying to solve the answers. Doing it together at least meant it was somewhat more bearable, because for the most obvious reason, _they were together._

It was one of these days in the library that MJ realised how deep his feelings ran for his best friend. He always _knew_ that there was a little more than friendship there for him, a _crush_ , he guesses. He was able to work through it though, work _around_ it, because Jinny was his best friend – not someone he was willing to lose forever. And realistically, MJ knew telling his straight best friend that he was gay and had, coincidentally, a crush on him may not have gone down very well. MJ was happy to keep this silent, keep it all up inside of him – occasionally, sure, he’d cry himself to sleep late at night, and the emptiness would slowly start to spread all over his body, but it was _worth_ it if it meant he got to keep this relationship with the elder.

This particular day, Jinny was sat upright, leaning against the arm of the couch. His knees were propped up so his book could lean against his thighs, and as he read, MJ worked on his history essay. He was trying too, at least, but the boy beside him was unfairly distracting. He had his glasses on, the new pair with the skinny, wire frames, and they were sitting on the very tip of his nose. MJ’s fingers twitched against his book, itching to reach out and push them farther up his nose, so they weren’t teetering right on the edge. MJ realised, after a split second, that they were best friends, and that he was _allowed_ to do that.

He quickly slapped his workbook away, and reached over to a surprised Jinny, who was looking across at him with his stupidly cute glasses and a pout on his lips. MJ was all rushed movements and hurried hands up until the moments he was touching the frames with his index finger, and then it all – including time – slowed. He pushed it just a fraction, so that it was higher along the bridge of his narrow nose, so that his eyes looked large and curious.

Jinny’s smile grew slow and delayed, but grew beautifully.

It filled his lips up big and plump, stretching over his teeth – unfairly straight and white – and met his eyes, too. It was a look so genuine and pure and filled with love that MJ felt his heart stop, felt it leapt out of his chest, into Jinny’s own chest. Right then and there, MJ allowed his chest to concave in on the space his heart had once been, but what he felt right then and there was so numbingly strong that he didn’t have time to think about the consequences of that decision.

 

(He’d come to regret it later, though).

 

 

Their fourth kiss tastes like leftover alcohol and mouthwash. Jinny half-carries a stumbling MJ into his bedroom, across to the bathroom, and sits him on the closed toilet lid. There’s clothes askew on the floor, a mess that MJ was well accustomed too, so Jinny no longer felt embarrassed by it. He turns away from the boy once he’s confident he’s not going to fall down onto the floor, and turns the tap on, filling the bath with water. He starts the water off scalding, the way he knows MJ likes it, but then adds plenty of cold water on top of it so it doesn’t burn his skin.

Jinny uses all his strength to ignore MJ’s grabby hands as he unties the boy’s shoes, pulls his socks off, yanks his jeans down and off his legs. He unbuttons his shirt messily and in haste, because there are other hands wrapped around his wrist, trying to drag his lips down to theirs. He ignores them as best he can, heart fluttering at the feeling of lips against his neck, the hollow of his throat, the patches of skin that were exposed by his collar – the only places MJ’s lips could reach. He also ignores the way his body was reacting to seeing his best friend naked like this – defenceless and a little weak, limp, and lethargic with booze. They’d seen each other naked before, sure, had _bathed_ together when they were younger, but this was different. This was unreserved and full exposure, nudity without purpose or intention for anything more, and Jinny wasn’t _blind_. He knew how gorgeous MJ was, knew how pleasant a boy he had underneath the outrageous clothes he often wore, underneath the slightly too-big school blazer. It was natural, the way he was reacting, or his body was, for that matter – but this was his _best friend_. Who was blind drunk, wobbly on his feet and head rolling around on his shoulders. He had looked better, that’s for sure, but as he helps his friend into the water, he can’t help but think he’s never been so _soft._

He lathers up the loofa with lime body wash and gives it to MJ, who uses it half-heartedly and plays with the suds more than using it to clean himself down. Jinny uses this time to wash the boy’s hair, getting out the residue vomit from the longer strands, rinsing it ever so gently to avoid it getting in his eyes. By this stage, Jinny’s sleeves are rolled up to his biceps, but they’re still wet with how much water MJ is splashing around. He’s like a child, Jinny thinks, but does so with what can only be described as the fondest smile in the universe, as he runs a comb through his hair now.

MJ mewls, and leans into the brushing, humming around the feeling. Jinny takes the loofa out of his limp hand now, adding more soap, gently but determinedly exfoliating out the smell of alcohol and sweat and cologne belonging to boys who aren’t him and vomit and lust. He does so till the boy’s skin is a pretty shade of pink, flushed enough that it’s definitely clean, but still smooth and fresh beneath it. He helps the boy up and out of the bath, making sure to secure both arms around him should the drunkard slip, and wraps him up in a big towel. He hands him his toothbrush – MJ has had one in his bathroom for years now – and times him for two minutes to stop the boy arguing with him over how long it had been, and then sits him on the edge of his bed.

Not only does MJ have a toothbrush, he has a drawer, too, full of clothes that were left over from the years he’s spent here. He picks a t-shirt and boxers and throws them at the boy, letting him pull on his underwear out of general decency while he tugs the shirt over his head. Once settled into the blankets, pillow fluffy and full around his head, he finally allows the boy to sleep.

When Jinny wakes up later, it’s to the ragged breath against his neck, tickling his senses. MJ is staring at him, looking embarrassed at being caught, and when he goes to tease him, MJ just pushes forward – presses their lips together shamelessly. This kiss is longer than all their others, and tastes like residue alcohol, but more so like mouthwash and tinges of morning breath. Jinny was ashamed to admit he moaned into the kiss, especially when MJ’s hands tugged at his hair, yanked his body closer to his own. MJ was retracting his tongue and his hands, but Jinny was reeling him back in. They were fifteen and hungover on alcohol they one hundred percent weren’t allowed to consume, shouldn’t have consumed, but they were young and wanted to feel a little free, and the kiss was a little heavy for whatever the hell this was, but it was _nice._ It was _nice_ feeling MJ’s hands scrawl up and under his t-shirt, it was _nice_ pressing a hand against his neck, feeing the _thumpthumpthump_ of his heart quickening, it was _nice_ having a body pressed warm and hot against his own. _It was nice kissing the boy you loved._

 

(Until it wasn't).

 

 

Their first _I love you_ comes when they're nine years old, a year after being friends, and MJ falls off the monkey bars at the playground. Their parents are mingling over by the picnic table at the edge of the bark pit where the playground sits, and there’s a half-drunk bottle of juice between them, and while MJ’s parents are chortling in laughter, Jinny’s looked pained and struggling to keep up. Jinny knew they were arguing a lot at home, could hear them through his thin bedroom walls, but whenever he asked them about it they told him not to worry, that it was just grown up stuff. He just wished his parents sometimes looked like MJ’s. MJ’s parents were bubbly and loud and the funniest people he knows, aside from MJ himself, and all he wants is to feel as proud and as loved as MJ’s parents make their son feel.

Jinny watches the moment MJ’s fingers slip from the bars, causing him to fall at an awkward angle, his hand flying out to stop his fall. That had been the mistake: the bone let out an almighty crack, heard all the way by the table, and the resonating wail that came after was enough evidence of what had happened. Jinny fell to the ground beside his best friend as the four parents scurried over, table and personal belongings forgotten about, and pulled MJ into his arms. He was small, both of them were, but there was a lot of love for him in his chest – in heart, the heart that was thumping loudly and super quick in his body, now. He could hear it in his ears, and every time MJ sobbed against his shoulder, clutching at his broken wrist, the throbbing got louder.

When MJ’s parents took MJ from his hands, he quickly reached out to stop them, just for a moment, and pressed a messy, wet kiss to his friend’s forehead. MJ giggled through the sobs, and Jinny’s heart soared at how comforting the sound was at a time like this. As MJ’s parents called an ambulance, reporting what had happened, Jinny held out his hand to his best friend, who took it eagerly and without question.

He was still crying, but didn’t sob quite so loud now, realising that it did nothing to ease the pain. They were only _nine_ , but MJ was vibrant and smart and everything Jinny hoped to be one day. They held the entire time, until the ambulance showed up, and held on even then. It was a struggle for Jinny’s own parents to separate them, to let MJ go to the hospital and to take him home. He whined and kicked and had, at one point, scream a little in protest, but in the end, had lost – MJ needed to rest, and he couldn’t, _wouldn’t,_ do that if Jinny was around.

So, instead, Jinny pressed another kiss to his friend’s forehead, snickering between the two of them, and rushed out a _“I love you, MJ_ ,” and added a shy wave.

MJ grinned toothily, waved back, “ _I love you, Jinny_!”

 

Their second and third kiss come in a quick succession. One right after the other in a badly lit public bathroom that was so far from being romantic, but so utterly perfect, too. They had walked out of a high school party one of their classmates was throwing, and both boys had taken advantage of the excessive amount of beer made freely available. MJ more than Jinny though, or perhaps the latter was just better at handling his alcohol, because he wasn’t the one on his knees in grimy public bathroom, spewing into a vile toilet bowl.

MJ was groaning in between the surges of liquid regurgitation, and there were tears at the corners of his eyes. He was exhausted, always _was_ after drinking, and more so after throwing up. He knew he’d have a violent hangover in the morning, which was why they were on their way to Jinny’s house, and not his own. MJ’s parents – though lenient and _cool_ in most other aspects – weren’t all that happy with him coming home drunk, especially not when this was combined with an equally drunk Jinny, and smelling like spew.

Jinny had thought MJ was spewing for an entirely different reason, thought that the fact he kissed him against the bathroom stall wall was enough to make him hurl, thought that he regretted pulling away, smiling, and then leaning back in enough to drop himself down to the unwashed tiles and letting everything fall out of him. But now, as MJ leans back on his heels, head falling back as to stare at the ceiling, there’s a faint smile tugging at the edges of his lips, one that normally would never be there if he was that disgusted. Vomiting was an ordeal for MJ, never something taken lightly, never something he’d _smile_ after. He was a miserable person when sick – but right now he was drunk, so perhaps this changed things.

The younger boy stood up on shaky legs, one hand on the wall, the other clinging to Jinny’s wrist. He allowed himself to be led towards the basin, where he washed his hands with the questionably-scented soap and hot water, before rinsing his mouth thoroughly. Jinny didn’t mind the lack of communication, just let his hands wander around MJ’s hairline, brushing back the longer bits to avoid them getting caught in the flow of water.

When MJ reaches to turn the tap off, Jinny turns the boy in his arms, noticing the embarrassed flush to his skin. The boy fiddles with the sleeves of his shirt, water dripping down from his lips and chin. Snickering, Jinny uses the hem of his t-shirt to wipe the water away. MJ contorts his face into one of mock-pain, making a noise of thankful annoyance, before opening his eyes and letting them fixate themselves on his own. Jinny noticeably gulps, and MJ bites his lip – eyes never once leaving his. There’s a hand with long, delicate fingers on his cheek, and he can’t resist the pull it has on him. He lets his head fall into the caress, lets the silly, drunk boy with vomit in his breath to lull him into some kind of drunkard trance, like he was some kind of hypnotic concoction, and ease him into a sense of calm. When the hand moves away from his face, his eyes open, and MJ’s aren’t on him anymore.

One of MJ’s hands is limp by his side, the other clutching at the collar of Jinny’s shirt. His eyes are lowered to the ground, but Jinny can make out the blush on his cheeks still, the heat of his touching the tops of his ears, his collarbones. Jinny places one hand over top the one clutching his shirt, and uses the other to tilt the boys head up. With a few fingers under his chin, and a gentle coaxing touch, MJ’s eyes are on his again, embarrassed and watery.

“What’s the matter?” Jinny’s voice breaks the extended silence, but it soaks in around them both like it had always been there.

MJ shrugs, trying to drop his eyes again, but Jinny tugs upwards again. “Hey,” voice soft and gentle again. “What is it?”

“I, uh,” he starts, shrugging again out of habit, but keeping his eyes trained on his face. “I ruined the moment.”

Tension eases off his shoulders, a snicker between his lips. “There’ll be plenty more moments.”

MJ’s eyes lit up, unafraid to peer deeply into his now, as they were before. There was hope there, too, and his one limp hand reached up to join his other hand on his shirt. “Really?” Jinny nodded, smiling fondly across to the boy. “You promise?”

Jinny used the hand that had been underneath the others chin to hold his other hand before replying. “I promise.”

 

(He lied)

 

 

It was the final week of their second year of high school, and MJ was alone in the library. There was no other boy sprawled along his legs, no silly giggles coming from the other down the end of the couch, no one to share his lunch with. The feeling he had now was worse than when Jinny had told him he had a girlfriend – Hana. Worse than the whole four months they were together. Worse than how devastated Jinny was when she ended, when MJ had to comfort him through something he was silently relieved about, but was heartbroken for him nonetheless.

This time, he felt no remorse for the boy. Didn’t feel bad for him. Instead, all he felt was anger. Pure, fiery anger, like the kind you see on movies and read about in books. The one where it takes over, removes the humanity from your body and replaces it with some kind of parasite that lasts long enough for you to regret something, and then it leaves, disappears off to wherever it came from, and makes you clean up its mess.

This time, though, the mess was far too scattered for just one person to clean up. To get it back to its original state, MJ would need help – would need him best friend to tidy up with him. But that was the problem.

MJ just told Jinny that he loved him. Just told him he liked boys the way Jinny liked girls, like Hana. And Jinny had stood up, had paced, had grabbed his bag off the floor and stuffed his book back in the front pocket. He didn’t bother packing up his lunch, it was scraps anyway, and MJ felt the sickening feeling of regret fill his stomach, with acid, with bile, with whatever else.

He turned to leave, turned to _walk out of there_ , like MJ was some kind of disease. But he hesitated, just for a second – a second that was long enough for him to rush down in hastily scrabble, press his lips to MJ’s, long enough to leave him winded, but not long enough to get him to stay.

Their fifth kiss tasted a lot like their last.

 

(And it was).

 

 

They met during the eighth monsoon of their lives.

There had been seven more before this one, but MJ couldn’t remember them. He couldn’t remember the moment the air had started to humidify, when the strong winds brought moistened air from the nearby seas towards them. _It came very early this year,_ his Mum had told him later, when both their noses were pressed against the glass of the living room windows, his Dad somewhere behind them, preparing dinner. His mind was caught in some kind of trance, stuck between fascination for the way the rain fell frightfully loud on their rooftop, and the giddy excitement of having made a friend.

Having come a week and a half early, the usually predictable monsoon-rains had left MJ stranded outside the front of his primary school. He was _eight_ \- a big boy, now – which meant his Mum allowed him to walk the two blocks from school to home, given that he did so quickly and always used the pedestrian crossings properly. The rain had really affected his usual routine. Normally, he’d bounce down the street, giddy and excited to get home, to see his Mum and his Dad, to play with his toys and turn the radio up real loud, but today he hesitated on the front steps, protected by the sliding glass doors of his school. He watched other kids scurry out in their rain jackets and clutching at their umbrellas, and MJ takes a moment to visualise his own jacket, hanging on the back of his bedroom door, and his umbrella, dangling off the coat rack by the front door of his home. He feels his bottom lip tremble at the fact he was going to end up _wet_ , very wet, soaking – and his Mum was going to be _mad._

But it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t known about the monsoon, hadn’t realised it would come so early – hadn’t realised it was going to come _at all._ He took a deep breath – he was eight, a big boy now – and pushed himself through the hissing sliding doors, and out onto the street. It was always noisy and loud outside, given that the school itself was in central Seoul, but now everything seemed amplified. There were more car horns blaring, and lights were fizzing around him, even behind his closed eyelids, and he felt remarkably dizzy. There were shouts, too, and the occasional squeal as someone stepped in a too-deep puddle, or when someone purposefully jumped into one.

He started to scurry quickly down the steps, and towards the direction of his home. In all honestly, the water didn’t feel so bad – it was a relief to the humidity that was outside now, but it was an annoyance more than anything, and it tickled the back of his neck. The school crowds began to thin the closer he got to home, and as he neared the first pedestrian crossing, he knew he was in the home stretch. He stopped behind the other people waiting to cross, arms curled in around himself, not feeling cold but not wanting to get sick, either.

Then, all of a sudden, the rain stopped.

He stopped the movement of his hands, staring upwards blankly, only to be met with navy blue plastic. He snaps his head to his side, seeing a boy around his height smiling gummily at him. He was smiling so wide his eyes were nearly shut, and his teeth were little but white, and MJ thought he was adorable. He wore the same uniform as he did, but MJ didn’t recognise him – their school was _big_ and MJ still got lost sometimes, so to know everyone’s face was unrealistic.

But the boy was holding an umbrella over his head, was sharing his own with _him_ , and friendless-MJ felt a bubbling of something in his tummy, like butterflies, like nerves, but better. Less scary.

The little man – who was once red and demanding – flashed green now with loud, repetitive ticks. The two school boys scurried across the street, giggling and laughing and jumping in puddles as they walked home together. They stopped outside his apartment building, knowing his Mum would be waiting for him upstairs, and their conversation and laughter died down. The boy – _Jin Jin –_ lived a few buildings down, and would walk the rest of the way now that MJ was home.

MJ thanked him, and made his way upstairs – but not before turning and yelling out a happy “ _we’ll be friends forever!_ ”

 

(The biggest lie of all).

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay everyone, so that's part one of my MJ / Myungjin sequel to The Thing About Moon Bin. It's probably more accurate to call it a prequel, especially considering this chapter, but meh. I hope you enjoyed this snippety sort of collection to the backstory - all of which happened BEFORE Dongmin's story, if you hadn't already picked up on that! And I'm sorry that it's pretty short compared to what ttamb was like, but the next part WILL be bigger!  
> Let me know what you thought! love you!  
> [[tumblr](http://softsocky.tumblr.com/)]


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